


Rescue In Belize

by Freemysoul



Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Language, Human Trafficking, Mercenaries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freemysoul/pseuds/Freemysoul
Summary: When a young boy is kidnapped, a group of private contractors are sent to save him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any inaccuracies are my fault alone.
> 
> A word of thanks:
> 
> To Katy, for being my wonderful beta reader, and for helping me keep this as realistic as possible.
> 
> To T.E., for putting up with, and answering all of my questions about Belize. I really appreciate it.
> 
> To Josh, for pointing out that I forgot to add physical descriptions at first.
> 
> To Joe, for helping me with tags.
> 
> And to my dad, for looking over the first draft of this story, and brainstorming with me. I love you.

**October 17th, 2019** , **0900**

Three days. Three whole days was how long it was going to be, until they knew whether or not this round had worked.

It wasn't like the docs hadn't been trying. They'd been doing their jobs. Maybe third time was the charm.

I wish I could be there for him, when they gave him the results. I wished I hadn't been on call this time…

"Vasquez!" called a British accent.

I was taken from my thoughts by the snapping of my team leader's fingers in my face.

"Armando, you with us?" asked Winston. The concerned look on his stubbled face told me everything I needed to know.

"Sorry, Captain," I replied sheepishly, "I was just thinking about some stuff."

"Well we need you here," He said, "Get your head in the game."

"Yes sir."

I shook my head. He was right. What was happening at home couldn't distract me right now.

"What's the job?" I asked.

Neither Winston, or his second-in-command, Alex, had told us any details when they called us at three in the morning. All they had said was be at the hangar no later than 0800, on the dot.

We'd taken off thirty minutes ago, and still nobody had said a word.

"Belize City," replied Alex, nodding to the person sitting beside me. At 25, Chaya was the youngest on our team, and in the company, if I'm honest. Not to mention probably the shortest at five foot two. There wasn't a thing she couldn't do with a computer or technology.

Except maybe make it make sense to Alex.

So of course they had filled her in first. They needed her to get all the information she could to start things off.

"It's the largest city in Belize," she said, with a click on her wrist tablet. A ding signalled that we'd all gotten an email. I pulled it up, and came face to face with a young boy with brown hair. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven years old.

"Pierre Bernat is the only son of a high-ranking judge in Andorra. He and his nanny were on their way to a vacation in San Pedro," began Winston, looking at all of us, "Almost three days ago, he was abducted from his hotel room. The nanny was killed, along with four out of five of their bodyguards."

Shit. I couldn't imagine what that poor kid must be going through.

"What about the fifth one?" asked a Kentucky drawl.

I looked over to see our sniper, Homer, leaning back in his chair, spit cup in hand. God, what he chewed made me sick. It came from a tobacco farm near where he had grown up, and he had been buying from there since he was 15.

He added a little Coca Cola into it. Maybe some peppermint. And if his beard wasn't so dark, you'd probably be able to see stains in it from the juice.

I shuddered just from thinking about it.

"MIA," answered Alex, shaking his head, "But judging from the amount of blood in his room…"

He let it hang in the air as he rubbed his goatee. Poor bastard had probably been dumped in a ditch or the ocean.

"The red tape has been taken care of. We're clear to come in with weapons," finished Winston with a sigh, "And we'll be working with the government's HT Task Force."

"HT?" I asked.

"Human trafficking," replied Alex with a grimace.

Jesus Christ.

"No ransom calls?" I asked, looking through the email some more. It had everything we needed to know about the kid. Medical history, allergies, that sort of thing.

"As far as we know, not yet," Alex replied, "We'll know more once Arlo makes contact with the judge."

That gave me some peace of mind. The former FBI agent was great at this kind of stuff. That's why he didn't go into the field that often. He was mostly needed with the client. It gave a direct line of contact with them.

And I'm told he can be quite the craftsman, when he's in the spirit.

"We do have an ace in the hole."

I looked to Chaya and asked, "Oh?"

"A few years ago, after a...significant amount of death and kidnap threats, his father had him start wearing a GPS tracker," Winston explained, taking a sip of his coffee, "It's embedded in the back of a Virgin Mary medallion."

Smart man.

"Those things usually have a short battery life though, right?" asked Homer, an eyebrow raised.

"It normally lasts 24 to 36 hours. If it was charged before he was taken, we might still be able to get the location," Chaya explained, "As long as it hasn't been checked constantly."

"That'd still be pushing it though, wouldn't it?"

Chaya nodded, "Arlo's going to get the information for us. He'll send it through the satphone."

Phones in general weren't exactly the most secure way of communicating. Not unless you were in a pay grade above us.

But after a lot of encrypting, along with trial and error, Chaya and Arlo had remedied that particular issue.

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. Instead of leaning back in my chair, I got up and decided to do an inventory check.

If the anxiety got bad enough...I could always talk with Alex about it. Winston, as a proper British gentleman, wasn't the touchy feely type. That tended to be more Alex's field.

Which wasn't saying much, but if I ever had an issue, I knew the former Delta Force operative would be more inclined to give personal advice.

I got back to where our gear was, and ran a hand down my mustache and goatee. I had a mental list of things I needed to check before we landed.

If we did our jobs right, and both God and luck were on our side, maybe this thing would go smoothly.

I couldn't let my personal troubles get in the way of what needed to be done. I had to keep myself busy. Idle thoughts were the Devil's playthings, after all.

It was never an issue in the army. Shouldn't be one here either.

We had a kid to save. And that was all that important right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Belize City, 1215**

Despite my best efforts, it wasn't easy to put my dad out of my thoughts.

It wasn't like I hadn't tried. I called everyone over, one by one, so we could do a gear check. Had to make sure we hadn't forgotten anything, after all.

From our guns and plate carriers, to our single satphone, we were fully stocked.

After that, I looked at my medical kit, the one for minor injuries. It was fully stocked, and so was my trauma kit. Pierre might need some medical attention when we find him.

Then I checked everyone else's blowout kits. Technically, I am the only combat medic on the team. But given that everyone here had served, we all knew enough to patch ourselves up.

I had still taken the time to teach some of the newer techniques to them. It never hurt to stay up to date.

But nothing worked to stop my worrying about dad.

By the time we caught it, it was in his nodes. Stage 3A. Even with chemo, and remission, the doctor who had given us a second opinion had said it would take a miracle for my dad to live past a couple of years.

That God himself would have to intervene.

In spite of everything, the flight went smoothly. When we landed, the head of the task force, Santiago Jimenez, greeted us, along with a few other officers. At five foot eight, he was my height, though clean shaven.

Cursory introductions were made, and they escorted us to the police station.

"Welcome to our humble abode," said Santiago as we entered the bullpen. I nodded as I gave it a look around. It was an extremely professional setup, and yet…it was small. There was no getting around it.

"Everyone, listen up." At Santiago's words, the other five men in the room turned to face him, "These are the contractors I told you would be coming to help us…"

Again, a cursory introduction was made. Nothing really special. After that, we got caught up on what they knew that we didn't know.

Which was to say not a damn lot. And I soon asked, "Santiago, do you have any suspects?"

"No. But I might have eliminated a possibility," He replied, turning to face me, "I don't think it was the local kingpin."

I raised an eyebrow. He seemed awfully confident in that answer, "How do you know?"

"I have an informant who works for that gang. Their leader is…" He paused, "Vehemently against it."

 _'That's a laugh,'_ I thought to myself. A drug kingpin violently against human trafficking. Yeah. Right.

When pigs fly...

"You're still looking into that lead, right?" asked Winston. It sounded like he didn't believe it either.

"Of course."

I nodded slowly, and went back to look over the information. When the hell was Arlo going to call?

* * *

About two hours had passed. No call, no emails, nothing. And there hadn't been any new leads either.

I read somewhere that, if kidnappers hadn't made contact within 72 hours, it meant they had no interest in a ransom.

Well it was right at 72 hours.

About that time, the stupid jingle on the satphone started playing. Chaya picked it up, and asked, "Hey, Arlo. You got it?"

He must have, since she immediately started writing something down.

At that, Winston motioned to give the phone to him, and asked, "Any ransom calls, or any contact?"

He stood in silence for a few moments, before he said, "Alright. Thanks, mate."

He hung up, and turned to face us.

"Gear up. We're green."

* * *

I did a brass check on my custom SBR, followed by my Glock. It was all good. Locked and loaded.

It had taken Chaya less than five minutes, in total, to get the tracker up and running. And after we got the last known location, it'd taken everyone less than fifteen to gear up, and load into the cargo vans. Our van was leading the pack.

According to her, the tracker hadn't moved in at least 12 hours. It was dead now, so we'd just have to hope they hadn't moved Pierre.

Wearing masks in the unholy humidity did make breathing difficult, and even with my regulation haircut, I found myself sweating. This was among the reasons we kept our hair really short.

But it was a small price to pay, for keeping our identities safe. We didn't need anyone deciding to follow us back to Texas. This was also why we didn't have any tattoos below our elbows.

Counting us, there were about thirty people involved. With that much manpower, we'd hopefully be able to extract the kid safely without much hassle.

 _"How close are we, Viper?"_ came Winston's voice over the radio comms.

Chaya didn't answer for a minute. It looked like she was double checking our location. But soon, she said, "Stop here."

The van came to a stop, and we all piled out. We had to be in the middle of the jungle, miles away from any civilization.

In fact, the only sign civilization ever had been here were the buildings about a hundred yards away.

If it had been any other day, I'd have written it off as abandoned. But it wasn't. Someone had taken the time to clear away the jungle that had been retaking the place.

Not to mention the tire tracks going to and from that big warehouse in the middle. But it didn't look like there were any vehicles there at the moment.

"You sure this is the place?" asked Winston as he walked over with Santiago.

"If they haven't moved him since the battery died, he's in the warehouse," Chaya replied.

"Alright. Deploy the drone. I want to know if anyone is outside," Winston ordered, before he turned to Homer, "Ghost, I want you in the rafters. Set up overwatch, and let us know how many are in there."

"Yes, sir," was Homer's reply, before he started to make his way to the warehouse. How he never passed out in that ghillie suit, I will never know.

Chaya deployed the drone as ordered. And a few minutes later, she looked to Winston and said, "I don't see anybody in the area."

"What about inside?" asked Santiago.

Winston relayed that question Homer, who said, _"I don't see anybody, Captain. Place is empty."_

Alex was taken aback by this, and the bald man asked, "What do you mean, it's empty?"

_"It's empty, Witch Doctor. Nobody. Zip, nadda."_

My face twisted in confusion. How could anyone not be there? The tracker said the kid had been here twelve hours ago. Why would they move him after that length of time?"

"Alright, smartass. We're going in. Let us know about any surprises," replied Winston.

Within minutes, we'd divided up into teams, and gathered at the entrances. Nothing was locked.

And none of this was making sense.

There should have been guards if this was where they were keeping the boy. But nobody was here.

And they wouldn't have gone to all that trouble, just to ditch him...

Unless they had killed him, and dumped the body here.

Even after we kicked the doors down, and started clearing the building, we didn't find anyone.

 _"We got nothing,"_ said Winston over the comms, _"Viper, are you sure this was the place?"_

"Absolutely," she would have said more, until Winston interrupted her.

_"We got something. Meet us at the bathrooms."_

We made our way to where Winston was. And everyone was standing frozen in place. I stopped when I saw what it was.

Standing next to the sink was Winston, holding something up for everyone to see.

"Is that what I think it is?"

The Captain nodded as he showed the Virgin Mary medallion to Santiago.

"We have a major problem."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, 1545**

"How the hell did they know where it was?" demanded Alex, voicing what I'm sure everyone else was thinking.

I felt my frustration growing. This had become FUBAR, really quick.

The tracker in question was extremely small, and unnoticable. You would have never seen it, unless the medallion had been flipped around.

There was no way those bastards could have ever known about that chip, or known to look for one.

Unless...

I saw Winston take the satphone from Chaya and dial a number. He must have been thinking the same thing.

"Arlo, who else knew about that tracker? I need names ASAP."

Silence. Then, "Call me as soon as you have them."

As he hung up, a Kentucky drawl came over the comms, " _You're gonna want to see this!"_

I followed the group as we went to Homer. Man was quick, I'd give him that. It must have come from a childhood of climbing up and down every tree he could find.

He was outside, near where Winston had come in. While his right hand kept the MK14 clone close, his free hand was pointed at a trail. One, if I had to guess, that Winston probably hadn't noticed, given its location.

"Tracks are fresh. Probably made this morning," He said, before spitting out a lob of tobacco juce, "Last night at the latest, if I had to guess."

Hope began to rise in me. Maybe this job hadn't gone completely FUBAR just yet.

"Back in the vans! Let's move!" yelled out Santiago.

Soon, we'd all piled back into the vans, and were on the trail. It was hot as hell, but a shiver skated up my spine at the implications.

How close had we been to them? Just how long had that medallion just been sitting in that sink?

...Had Pierre been punished for having that tracker on him?

Logic told me they probably hadn't beaten him too badly, if only to keep him alive.

It didn't give me any comfort.

After a while, we finally came to a paved road. The driver saw dirt going right, so we went that way, and followed it for a while. But it eventually went cold too.

Fuck.

* * *

By the time we got back to the station, Santiago had made a few calls. With them, he had shut down every port within a twenty mile radius of Belize City. He'd also demanded information about every ship that had left in the last three days.

I suppose that when a man in his position is faced with an International incident, you tend to have a bit more authority than you would normally.

Especially when a young boy's life was at stake.

After we'd taken off our gear, I went to Winston and asked, "What now?"

He sighed, "Now, Santiago gets us a list of every snitch he has, and we start questioning them."

I shook my head and asked, "What about Arlo?"

"Arlo is thorough. He's not going to call until he has something sustainable."

"Alright."

I turned and went to find a place to sit. I needed five minutes to rest my feet. I soon found one, in the form of a revolving desk chair.

Nobody should have ever been able to find that chip. It should have defied all logic for them to even know about it.

Not unless they had known what they had been looking for. There wasn't anything else left behind, like they had just picked something at random, and started looking away until they found it. It had been precise.

Those sons of bitches had had an inside man.

The only question was who?

I thought about taking off my boots, to give myself a foot rub. I'd been wearing them since six thirty.

Santiago came into the bullpen with some papers, and started handing them out.

Belize was truly a diverse country when it came to languages. The official one was English, even if only a minority spoke it as a first language. Most people spoke either Spanish or Kriol, though there were others in widespread use too.

Being bilingual was extremely common.

Translating might not be needed, in this case. But out of all of us, Alex and I were the only ones on the team who could Spanish fluently.

Chaya didn't speak it; she had an app for that. Homer was learning it from me. And I knew Winston could speak enough to hold a simple conversation.

Out of the two of us though, I would win in a contest. Besides, Russian was more Alex's specialty. The perks of having a Russian oil rigger as his wife.

"Are these all of them?"

"They are," replied Santiago.

"Alright, let's go find them," ordered Winston.

A series of pings got our attention, and everyone looked to their tablets. We'd gotten an email.

I picked up mine, and clicked on the message from Arlo. It was a picture of a man in his late 20's, in a military uniform.

About that time, the satphone rang, and Winston picked it up.

"What do you have, Arlo?"

Silence. Then, "You're sure?"

His face looked as hard as stone. Winston nodded and said, "Thank you."

As he hung up and put the phone on the table behind him, he sighed and started tapping his fingers across the table. After a few moments, Chaya asked, "What did he say?"

Our captain turned to face us. His expression hadn't changed at all.

"Besides Pierre's parents, and the company that installed it, there are only two other people who knew about that tracker."

"Who?" I asked.

"Pierre's dead nanny," Winston began, "And Bengy Marti, the missing bodyguard."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**THE POLICE STATION, 1700**

"Belize has been his vacation destination of choice for a very long time," Winston said, nodding to the whiteboard that faced everyone in the bullpen.

It had previously been blank, but now contained all the information Arlo had sent us. It was also written big enough that Winston didn't need his glasses.

Bengy Marti. Former soldier turned bodyguard. Turned bastard who sold out children to the scum of the earth.

He looked incredibly average: medium build, a pencil thin mustache, and warm eyes. You would never suspect him.

"You think he's been a traitor the whole time?" I asked, arms folded, and a scowl across my face.

"It looks that way, Doc," Alex replied, shaking his own head.

How the hell could someone just sell out the people he was hired to protect? It made me sick to my stomach.

Marti had served in the French Foreign Legion for nearly a decade, before he started hiring out for security work. He'd been in the judge's employ for the past two years.

It almost reminded me of my own background. I'd served eight years in the Rangers, and then went into the private sector.

Thank God that was where the similarities ended. If I got my hands on him, there was no telling what I might do.

"Another thing," Santiago spoke up, bringing me out of my thoughts. He held up a copy of a report, "All that blood in his room? Lab says it's bovine."

"So just how long has he been planning this?" Homer quipped, lobbing some juice into his spit cup.

"For a very long time, if I had to guess," I said, my hands trembling with rage. This wasn't a spur of the moment decision. This was coldly premeditated.

Four men, who by all accounts, were hard-working and decent individuals, not to mention his comrades in arms, were dead because of him.

Because of him, a young woman had been butchered, and the boy he swore to protect had been kidnapped, and was probably scared shitless.

And if we didn't save him, he was facing a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. All because of this one man.

"I've put out a BOLO on him. It's countrywide," continued Santiago, "And I've called Interpol. Hopefully, it'll be going international."

Good.

Santiago got a phone call, and he walked off. It seemed like the presentation was over. I guess it was time to find the snitches and see what they had to say.

Before I could look at the list, Santiago walked back in, and announced, "I think we have a lead."

"Who?" Winston asked, taking off his glasses.

"One of my informants. He's requested a face to face."

"Is he coming in?" I asked.

Santiago shook his head, "He'd prefer a meeting in a place of his own choosing."

Paranoid motherfucker. Then again, weren't most snitches?

* * *

"His name is Carlos Ruiz. He came down from Mexico a while back," explained Santiago as we drove the park.

"Which part?" I asked from the backseat. Alex had pulled seniority and called shotgun.

"I think Juarez," replied Santiago.

Juarez, Mexico. My parents' home before they came to America. I still had some family there, and I'd been to visit a few times. Though that was a long time ago.

But something was bugging me, and I asked, "How long ago was it that he moved here?"

"About seventeen, eighteen years ago. We've known each other for a long time." He looked in the rearview mirror and asked, "Why?"

I shrugged.

"Just wondering."

Eighteen years put him in Mexico. It fit the timeline...I stopped myself. It was just a coincidence. Nothing more and nothing less.

We found a parking spot, and started walking over to a bench. The man turned to face us, and gave a huge smile. And I froze in my footsteps.

He was shorter than Santiago, but it was the face I knew all too well. Sure, his hair was gray now, and he was missing the beard, but it was him. Of all the people it could have been, why did it have to be him?!

"Sir?"

He must have noticed my shocked expression. I shook my head, and asked, "Yes?"

"Are you ok?" His English was decent, though it didn't flow naturally, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I gave my best fake smile and replied, "I really don't know."

Out of the corner of my eye, Alex was giving me a 'what the fuck' look. Santiago was too. Couldn't really say I cared that much.

Not when I'm face to face with the spitting image of the man who murdered my uncle.

My mind always went back to the blood. Not the blood itself, but the sheer amount of it.

I didn't have an issue with blood. Never have. I wouldn't be a medic if I did.

I just wondered sometimes if it had anything to do with what I saw when I was eight. Or if it was just something I was born with.

Dr. Buffington, when I was his patient, seemed to think it was the former. We never did reach an agreement on that.

We started walking around the park. I had hoped the urge to punch his lights out, among other things, would fade. But it didn't.

It wasn't helped by Santiago chatting him up like they were old friends. If anything, it made it worse.

I'm aware of what I have. I know what it's called, and I know that it used to be much worse than what it is now. But it never truly goes away. And you don't turn it off.

Carlos talked about how it was a new player in town. How Pierre wasn't the first to be taken, and how a lot of people had gone missing.

How his boss had tried multiple times to drive them out, and had finally given him permission to tell Santiago about it.

So that's what drug kingpins did when they weren't dealing poison, or chopping people into pieces so small they were unrecognizable.

It must have been a sight to see, us walking around that park. Santiago and Carlos in their own world, Alex boring a hole in the back of my head with his icy blue eyes.

And me, back in my parent's living room almost twenty years ago. Screaming my lungs out because of all the blood.

Carlos said he'd have some men keep an eye on the docks. That they'd call us if they saw anything.

I didn't say anything on the way back. I knew Alex had a million questions; he always did.

And if he had asked, I'd have told him the truth. That Santiago's snitch had triggered an episode, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

That I was scared shitless that I was going to lose my dad. It wasn't a matter of it, but when.

After what seemed like hours, we finally got back to the station. I passed by everyone without saying a word. I couldn't face them in this state. I needed some space.

* * *

I found myself in the break room, hands folded in as if in prayer. I had to take some deep breaths to calm myself down.

At least the trembling had stopped.

"Doc? You ok?" came an Israeli accent.

I looked up to see Chaya standing in the doorway, arms folded, brown eyes staring at me.

"I...no. No, I'm not," I replied.

"Alex told me to check on you. Said you looked pretty out of it." She walked in, straight to the coffee machine. She poured us both a large cup, and handed one to me.

"It's...I'm better now."

I took a long sip. It wasn't that bad. I've had worse.

We sat in silence for a while. And before long, I spoke, "I'm pretty sure Santiago's snitch murdered my uncle."

She raised an eyebrow, "How do you know?"

I explained how the neighbors had gotten a good look at the face of the man leaving the house that night. And how, every year, I had that face digitally aged, just so I would know what he looked like.

"My uncle was a Mexican DEA agent. He'd come up to Texas to visit. He was...usually really careful about not letting anyone follow him," I explained, taking another sip of coffee, "We were out. He waited in the house. He had wanted to surprise us."

But someone had followed him that time. And it had taken DNA to identify him, because of how unrecognizable he had been.

I had been the one to find him. And I'd had to be in therapy for a long time after that.

"Armando...you have no way of knowing whether or not that was the guy," she said quietly, putting her cup on the table, "Digital aging isn't a hundred percent accurate. And everyone has a twin, somewhere. The odds of you running into him are…"

"I know the odds," I interrupted, pinching my nose, "I'm very aware of them."

Leave it to the woman who got her bachelor's in Computer Science at 17 to tell me what the odds are.

"Doc...how's your dad?" She asked out of the blue, "You've been off this whole time. Has something happened?"

I clicked my tongue. How could it have been that obvious?

"We're waiting for the results."

She sighed, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't call out," I replied, "Not on this short of notice."

A thought crossed my mind. I could check on my dad. It wouldn't take that long, and nobody else would ever have to know.

"Chaya...is there any chance I could borrow the…" I began, before she cut me off.

"You know we can't make personal calls on this kind of job," She shook her head, "And that satphone doesn't make calls outside of approved numbers."

I sighed. It was worth a shot.

She finished her coffee and stared at the door for a while. There wasn't much we could do other than wait for a lead.

"Did I ever tell you why I left the IDF?"

I shook my head. Come to think of it, she'd never told anyone, except maybe our boss, Phillip Parker, about her past in the military.

Don't get me wrong. I knew her father had been an Orthodox rabbi. And she hadn't been drafted, she'd volunteered for the Israeli army.

But details further than that had never come.

"It was a hardship discharge. Or at least, that's what it amounted to," She explained, shaking her head, "One day, my parents were just driving along the Gaza Strip, minding their own business…"

Chaya swallowed and finished, "They were next to a bus, when it blew up. There was...barely enough left to bury."

"I am so sorry, Chaya."

She nodded, "And I'm sorry about your uncle."

We sat in more silence for a while. Got refills for our coffee, and just sat there, sipping it. And without realizing it, a lot of my anxiety had actually left me.

And I had just noticed it.

"I know that what happened with the snitch couldn't be helped. And that you've got a full plate at home," She began as she stood up to face me, "But there's a little boy out there, who needs us."

I finished the last of my coffee, stood up, and nodded.

"I'm with you."

We didn't say anything else as we went back to the bullpen. Alex noticed, and after Chaya went to find something to do, he walked over to me.

I stood at attention as he asked, "Everything good?"

"No sir," I replied with a shake of my head, "But I will be."

"Your head in the game?"

"Yes sir."

And it was. We had a job to do.

Before he could say anything else, Santiago walked in, and announced, "We have a location."


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**THE DOCKS, 2100**

_"And you're sure it's him?"_ Winston's voice came through the comms. As soon as we had gotten the location, Winston had sent Homer and Chaya to scope it out.

Carlos had said they were holding a bunch of people at a warehouse on the docks. After a drone use, and Homer sneaking in through the skylight, it was confirmed. Pierre was there.

Chaya had come back to report what they'd found, but Homer had stayed behind to make sure Marti showed up.

That had been a few hours ago. We'd taken that time to get geared up and map out a plan of attack.

Full auto was out of the question. Not only was the boy there, but there were also dozens of other people, mostly women and children, who were in cages with him.

We didn't need any hostages getting shot. And even though we all trained on auto, and had that capability, semi was much more controllable.

Homer would cover us from above, and we'd go in through the entrances. We'd throw in some flashbangs, and rush in while they were all disoriented.

Our other goal would be to try and take as many of them alive as possible.

Arlo had given us a call. The President of France, as well as the Bishop of Urgell, had given the judge a call. And had made something extremely clear, in no uncertain terms: They wanted Bengy Marti taken ALIVE.

I suppose they wanted to make an example of him. Fine by me.

Santiago had also said he wanted the ringleader alive.

And to think, all this was possible because of the man who probably killed my uncle.

 _'Focus, Vasquez,'_ I thought to myself. This was no place for a PTSD episode.

 _"Yeah, it's him,"_ came Homer's voice. Winston nodded to all of us, and the operation was a go.

I followed Alex and his group to the back entrance, and soon flicked the safety off. This was it. We were doing this.

_"Witch Doctor, we go on my signal. Get ready."_

"Yes sir," was Alex's reply. I took a deep breath.

_"Going in, in three, two, one, NOW!"_

Alex kicked in the door, and threw in a flashbang grenade. It went off about the same time the one Winston threw did. And we all rushed in.

"Down on the ground, motherfuckers!" yelled out Alex. I heard Winston yell it too. We had them surrounded, and there was no way they were getting out here.

Most of them had the sense to do what we said.

Bengy Marti didn't. Instead, he decided to make a run for it. I started running after him.

A suppressed shot rang out, and he fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his left knee.

As I got closer, he tried pulling a gun. By the time it exited its holster, I had kicked it out of his hands, and had the business end of my rifle in his face.

"Give me an excuse!" I growled. He meekly raised his hands.

 _"You're welcome, Doc,"_ came Homer's voice over the radio.

I replied, "Thanks, Ghost."

An officer came over and started applying a tourniquet to Marti's leg. I backed off as soon as it was done and he was cuffed. I flicked the safety back on.

It looked like Homer had clipped him in the knee. Even with a tourniquet, he was probably going to lose the lower half of his leg.

And yet, I couldn't bring myself to care. As ordered, we'd gotten him alive.

The scumbags caught and cuffed, I turned my attention to the cages. God, this made me sick. I had to look a bit, but eventually I found Pierre, hiding with some of the kids.

I waved for someone to come over with some bolt cutters. We got the chain off and I walked into the cage.

"Pierre?" I asked. The brown haired boy hid from me. They all had to be majorly traumatised and scared out of their minds.

Well I wasn't about to take my mask off. But I had come prepared. I took a folded note out of a pouch on my plate carrier, and held it out to one of the boys. He gave it to Pierre, and I backed away.

Chaya had translated it from English to Catalan for all of us. None of us could speak that language.

The message was simple, but clear. It said that his father had sent us.

After a few seconds, without warning, I found him hugging my waist, crying.

It was over. He was safe.

* * *

I glanced out the car window. We'd be at the hospital any second now. My mask and rifle were back on the plane, but I still had my pistol, and a vest under a loose shirt. All of us did.

It was a few days after the raid. Pierre, surprisingly, was relatively healthy, if in shock. Before he went to the hospital, I had returned his medallion to him.

All the victims had been cold, filthy, and hungry. I hoped the others would be able to find their way home, wherever that might be. The Belize government was helping them out on that end.

The hospital they were at was swarming in cops. Nobody was retaking them.

As for us?

The police had interviewed all of us, afterwards. We weren't sticking around in the country for the trials, so they had needed our complete testimonies. Our full names had not gone on the records. No sir.

Winston and Alex were with the American Ambassador to Belize. He had to be informed of what had happened, and make sure no further incidents had occurred. After that was taken care of, we'd be allowed to leave the country.

After much discussion, it had been decided that the least stressful solution would be to have his parents come here, and take him home.

Homer, Chaya, and I had picked them and Arlo up from the airport. We, along with two cop cars, would be escorting them to the hospital.

Pierre still needed to give his testimony, and the police could escort them to the airport after they were cleared to leave.

He was a good kid. I hoped this hadn't fucked him up too badly.

My dad's appointment had been yesterday, and I still didn't know what the results were. But Chaya had stood vigil with me, last night. And we'd be home soon enough.

I still felt the anxiety. But it wasn't as bad as it had been.

God, I hoped he was alright.

We finally got to the one story building, and after we parked, we started walking them to Pierre's room.

After a while, we finally found the room number. And after Santiago showed the two officers at the door his badge, it was opened.

His mom and dad walked in first, without fanfare. We walked in right after they did.

It was his reaction, and his parents', that made it worth the bullshit that we'd gone through.

Pierre was going home.

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for taking so long to cross post.


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